


Meshes of the Evening

by MsSedusa



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, Surrealism, abstract grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsSedusa/pseuds/MsSedusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'She takes the coat off, noting the blood soaking the back of it. Her thigh aches, but she can't pinpoint where the wound is, and the idea of feeling for it terrifies her. The sunburn is a much more pressing issue, but she ignores that, too.'</p>
<p>Inspired by the short film Meshes of the Afternoon. Homura focused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meshes of the Evening

**Author's Note:**

> Surrealism writing is hard and no one should do it.
> 
> Meshes of the Afternoon is on Youtube for public consumption.

Her breath fogs the air in front of her(a crisp chill stinging her sunburn skin, the blisters radiating intonerves which radiate into her bones, the pain intense but easy to ignore) and her coat clings to her skin. She is under nourished. She always was.

' _The liese are active this morning,_ ' she thinks. And then ' _Disgusting._ '

Her walk quickens. She rounds a corner, her jacket catching on a branch and tearing slightly. She ignores the wound in her clothing, but the sound of fabric breaking under strain makes her wince.

At the end of the street, there's a woman with a spider lily in front of her home.

Her breath hitches. The woman disappears.

The sound of her footsteps against the concrete is similar to nails on chalkboard, and she whips around the corner.

The door to her home is open. She hesitates, but straightens her coats and her shoulders. Something wet slides down the back of her thigh and she wonders if the branch caught her skin, too.

Inside, the dolls against the window sill and the black screens against the wall, it's the same as it has always been. The memory feels tainted. This is what she knows best, but it's wrong. She clears her throat, peering down the hall.

Doll eyes follow her movements.

She takes the coat off, noting the blood soaking the back of it. Her thigh aches, but she can't pinpoint where the wound is, and the idea of feeling for it terrifies her. The sunburn is a much more pressing issue, but she ignores that, too. Draping the coat over her chair, she sits down.

If the woman was here, if the woman cared to be here, she'd have to strike now. Knowing this, Homura slowly uncurls her muscles as she rests against the chair.

A symphony rings loud and high inside her mind. She closes her eyes.

-

Walking home. She's walking home, and she accidentally passes her stop over and over and

The woman in front of her disappears. She ignores the faded petals of her flower. She steps inside her home.

The dolls are decapitated. Their frames are scattered, stuck in the screens that broke so easily. She walks on and over them, leading down the hall. At the end of it, she clutches her chest and the pain is horrible and the walls are caving in and

-

She runs as hard as her legs allow. Her heart hurts in a way that shouldn't be possible, and yet it doesn't stop. She should be dead. The woman still disappears against the backdrop of city and gray sky. She cries out in frustration and whips inside her home.

She slams the door, and regrets it. The dolls fall off the shelf, and she hears laughter in a faint echo. The black screens come alive, and pink fills their view.

She storms down the hall. The sight of a spider lily causes her immense anger.

And then, there's a moment when she hesitates. And then the ground shakes under her feet. She struggles to keep her balance, but she falls anyway.

-

The smile gracing her lips stabs her cheeks and her jaw seems to lock into a permanent position of grinning. She can't see in front of her face, and her glasses have fogged. She wants to hook her fingers into her mouth and rip her smile straight off of her, and give it to the woman at the end of the road.

The lily bearer disappears again. She giggles, and she sobs.

She doesn't get to her home. She drops to her knees. The dolls in the window are faced towards her, and there's a faint glow of kindness from the screens inside her.

take my smile take my happiness take my life take my heart take my world take it take it take it give her back please give her back take it  _take it_   _take it TAKE IT_

Her skull breaks against concrete.

-

She's crying so hard that the hiccups keep the scavengers away from the trash of her surroundings and the worms crawl back into the safety of soil. She's clawing away the tears and her skin has already been ripped open long ago. She can feel cheek bone.

The spider lily peers from the end of the street. It lasts a second longer. And then, it is gone.

She screams in a way that crushes her soul under her. She never tries to head home. She collapses to the floor and waits for the cycle to repeat itself as salty tears sting fresh wounds.

-

The steps against the concrete remind her of glass being crushed. It's satisfying, in a way.

The woman and the lily and the emotions are gone before she looks up. She turns the corner into her home as rain begins to fall.

The dolls are in front of the steps of the hall. They are face down. She smiles.

On the screens, the picture of red flower flickers to the face of a dead goddess who hadn't been born yet. A bullet wound pierces her forehead and her pink head is ripped open by impact. And then, the screens disappear.

She looks over at her chair. Her own sleeping form rests against it. The blood of a branch wound is covering the floor. She walks towards herself.

With each step her walk is immortalized in a form behind her. A timid face, an enraged glare, a painful smile, and then bloody sadness.

Her own expression is one of the end of a cycle. There's a lily in her own sleeping lap. She picks it up. The point of the stem of the flower is strong.

She drives it into her own forehead.

~

Pink hair bobs down the street. The bags of flowers upon flowers, gift cards, chocolate. Blue and red hair tell her good luck, yellow smiles, white laughs.

She passes street after street. Intersection, a corner. She knows her way. It's marked by spider lilies growing next to the path. She doesn't notice.

Shifting the bags to one hand, she pulls out a skeleton key on a ribbon. The door to a house with dolls in the windows and screens of video on the walls peers down at her. She does not fear it.

The key clicks the lock open, and she steps inside.

~

Despair rips her from slumber. She clutches her forehead, and a pink haired lover steps inside. The blood on the floor is immense. Pink hair drops the bags.

Her own black hair bobs as her head is lowered into her hands. She sobs.

A stuttering voice. Pink hair runs towards her.

An accepted fate, a gruesome depression, a painful plea, an ugly anger, and a disgusting avoidance lashes out from her chest, through her hands, onto the pink one's throat.

Her life is strangled, and then it is gone.

She screams for herself and for her love.

The cycle repeats.


End file.
